


Your Room, You Suppose

by CalsLaundry



Series: You Suppose [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Blood, Domesticity, Implied Murder, Kidnapping, Nightmares, Smut, falling for the kidnapper, generally dodgy things, with no pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalsLaundry/pseuds/CalsLaundry
Summary: The slicing is only interrupted by the radio, and you barely hear that.Until you hear your name.“Police say there is no hope of finding anything but a body. The family have called off the search. Sad news, but now…” you don’t hear the rest.-----You were kidnapped by Alastor a while back, but now you're presumed dead. He'd never stop looking. Maybe he's not so bad...
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Series: You Suppose [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665751
Comments: 55
Kudos: 353





	Your Room, You Suppose

**Author's Note:**

> Real talk, this is pretty dark.  
> I ask that you check the tags, and be careful going into this in case it's not something you're cool with. This fic deals with kidnapping in a way that doesn't demonise the kidnapper, and reader does fall for their captor. They excuse his behaviour. Be warned, and feel free to turn back.

You’ve lost track of the days. 

You’d often pondered marking the walls with some kind of mark for every day you stay here, but he hadn’t left anything you could use to mark the wall. Instead, you sit on the bed in the corner of the room, _your room_ , you suppose. The room is coloured with a soft haze of light, the shadow of the bars on the window and the trees outside cut into the block of Apricot on the walls. You stand from the bed and stretch. He’ll be home soon. You’re not...excited, but you are hungry, and he does always feed you well. It has been long enough that the hope someone will get you out of here has drained, only the dregs remain. But that hope keeps you...you. Without it, you don’t know who you might become. 

You make the bed in a short moment, and sit with your back resting against the side of it. It’s not a bad space. The walls are wooden and bare, the floor is much the same save for the rug. The bed, originally a barely covered pathetic sight now had a nice blanket and pillow. You don’t know why he went to this kind of trouble. It made very little sense. When he snatched you from the woods, you expected death. You struggled and kicked and screamed but he threw you into this cabin, looked at you on the floor, smiled wide, and put you in this room. That night, he cooked for you, when you didn’t eat it, he still brought you breakfast the morning after. It was like forcefully being taken care of, and you couldn’t guess what else might happen. Instead, you’ve just been playing nice. As a result, he doesn’t do anything to you. He brings you meals, lets you roam the house when he’s home, speaks to you-moreso, he speaks at you-, and he doesn’t touch you. 

Across the house, you hear the door bang shut. The familiar humming, the one that once sent shivers through you and brought the bile to your throat, gets closer. He knocks on the door a few times, the percussion to the song he’s humming, and the lock comes undone. 

“Good evening, my dear,” his head pokes around the door; his smile is wide, and his green eyes are bright behind his glasses. At least he always seems delighted to see you.

“Hi. Um, welcome home”, he laughs and you stand up.

“Come, we have dinner to cook!”

He holds the door open for you, and you stretch as you cross the room. 

“Why don’t you get the fire going, hmm?” You nod, a quick glance towards the fireplace and you see he has already brought in the firewood. You set to work, and he continues humming and he starts cooking. You don’t want to admit it’s pleasant. But there’s a sense of routine that you appreciate. The situation could be worse.  A short noise startles you, but you turn and see Alastor turning on the radio before he returns to preparing the ingredients for dinner. 

The fire has come to life, and you warm your hands for a moment before you walk towards the kitchen. The cabin is comfortable, you’ll grant him that. The dark wood with the stone fireplace has a sense of cosiness. Even in the kitchen, there is something domestic about seeing this man over the cooker. The kitchen is brighter than the rest of the house; it has a chalky white colour with tall cupboards and a deep sink. Sometimes, when you take in the details, you wonder if you want to be here. It’s not a bad place, really. Every moment you spend in this part of the house, you like it more, but then the guilt of liking it sets in and all you can do is distract yourself. You lick your lips; “What are we having?” 

“My mother gave me a lovely recipe for jambalaya,” he turns around and gives you a smile, “sit if you’d like, my dear”.

You oblige, but you’re restless. The radio moans in the background with a static overlay to every word, and you can’t help speaking again. Maybe today was an exceptionally comfortable one with him. 

“Can I help?” 

“Hmm,” he stills, “can you chop those onions for me, please?” 

He gestures with his own knife in a way you’re certain is to remind you that he has one. He moves like it’s part of him, an extension of his bones. It’s graceful and beautiful and terrifying in one flourish. You step up beside him, and you’re reminded of the dramatic height difference. Your head barely comes to his shoulder, and when he looks down at you, you can’t help the small shiver that runs through you from just from that look. It’s not arousal(you hope), it’s intimidation. He’s a terrifying man. He hands you a knife and a few onions, and in silence, you begin to work. You watch him from the corner of your eye, not with suspicion, just...taking him in. He’s a tall man, with dark brown hair long enough that it should be unruly, but he keeps it swept across neat and tidy. He wears glasses over those Absinthe green eyes, and despite looking slender, you know he’s strong. His shirt and waistcoat show off his lithe figure and he’s all wrapped up with a bowtie. As he works, his sleeves are folded up to the elbows. The echo of the night he caught you in the woods rings back, and you remember some leather gloves too. You look out the window every so often. The trees poke up against the sky like daggers as inky night steals all the pink from the sky. You can’t see between them, the trees, there’s a darkness almost unearthly, like anyone who dares enter would disappear.    
You suppose it’s right to think so.  
The slicing is only interrupted by the radio, and you barely hear that.

Until you hear your name.

“Police say there is no hope of finding anything but a body. The family have called off the search. Sad news, but now…” you don’t hear the rest.  
A dull ringing consumes your hearing, a block of ice slips down your throat and settles in your belly. That’s it. The last dregs of hope slip away into the air. You blink and tears drop onto you, when did you start crying?  
Your hearing comes back with Alastor in front of you, face panicked as he repeats your name over and over. He’s holding your wrist, and you look down. There’s blood dripping from your hand. You look back up at him. 

“Stay with me, my dear. We’ll get you cleaned up. Come now,” with your hand still cradled in his, his other hand rests on the small of your back, and he leads you to the sink.  
He lets go of you for a moment, and when he touches you again, it’s only to ever so carefully cleans your hand. You can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything. You lean forward until your forehead rests against his shoulder, and he stills.  
In a quiet voice, one so low you’re not sure you’re actually speaking, you speak against his arm;

“They’re not looking for me anymore…”

He resumes cleaning your wound. 

“I suppose they’re not.”

You go quiet.

“Stay here for a moment,” he leaves and returns with bandages.

“They’re not looking for you anymore,” he reaffirms, and you look at him. He’s frowning as he covers the cut, that you now see is quite deep. He looks up at you, over his glasses, and smiles, 

“You don’t have them, but you still have me”.

You want to throw up, but he’s right.

He’s still there.

And he hasn’t let anything happen to you. 

_ I bet he’d never stop searching. _

You nod and feel a weak smile cross your lips.

“Chin up,” the crook of his index finger tips your chin, “things are going to be fine. Now, let’s get back to dinner”.

The evening exhausts you. Dinner is delicious, as always, Alastor can cook remarkably well, but there’s still a sick stone in your gut. You really are stuck here.    
Alastor stands to turn the radio off and you take it as your cue to go to bed. But instead he holds out a hand and you take it.

“I know today has been something of a rough one,” he leads you a little closer until you’re close to him, close enough to smell him, “dance with me?”

You follow his lead, it feels like things are going back to normal. But they won’t be. This is normal now. 

_ But is it so bad?  _ A voice in the back of your mind whispers.

“I can’t leave you outside, you understand that,” you nod against his shoulder, “but I will find a way to make this easier”.

The moon is full tonight.

It paints the walls in a white glow. It’s only when you lay down that it really gets to you. You know Alastor can’t let you go. But now...knowing everyone gave up on you so easily...you don’t want to go back. You have a room here, a cosy home, and someone who wants you here. Someone who would never stop searching. You lay back against the pillow, more than aware that just on the other side of the wall, Alastor is likely already asleep. Tomorrow, you will find a way to help around the house. You will be better. He is your family now.

*

As dawn’s rosy grip sneaks into the room, you awake to the door creaking open. Alastor’s footsteps reach the bed before you open your eyes and sit up in the bed. 

“Good morning, my dear”, he holds a hand out and you look up at him with some strange feeling in your stomach, “let me see your hand”. 

All of a sudden, you remember your accident last night. And you remember that you’re no longer a missing person, you’re just a body to them. Alastor checks the bandage, and you look over him. He’s already dressed for the day, his hair is already in place, and his eyes are clear and bright. He must have been up for a while.

“Hmm, I’ll change it before I go. Now, up we get!”, Alastor walks out the door, but there’s an extra skip in his step. You set yourself up for the day with a quick wash and fresh clothes, and join him in the kitchen. Breakfast is already on the table, but he stands when you enter and beckons you to the sink. He cleans your wound in silence and redresses it. 

“You’ll heal fine, dear. You’ll heal better with food in your belly!” You smile, but before you walk away, he pulls you back to him, mindful of your wound. He buries his face in your neck and breathes you in. 

“You smell...delicious, my dear.”

He pulls back, smiles at you, and leaves. You forgot that he has his moments. The ones where he seems less human. But the shivers in your spine aren’t from fear. Your heart isn’t thumping because you hated it. You chew your lip and touch your hot cheeks before you follow him and sit at the table, and together, you eat breakfast. But that same energy still buzzes from him.

“You know, I had a thought,” the words burst from him almost too excitedly, “you’ve had a bad week, and you’ve been just the most wonderful guest! I want to make things a little better for you. Today, while I’m in work, I’m going to leave your bedroom unlocked,”

You drop your fork and stare across the table at him. 

“You’re free to roam around the house. But I will say,” he turns his fork in his hand, “don’t try to leave, please. You can’t, but I’ll know if you do try. And that would only make things more difficult in this tough time”.

“Of course, yes, thank you, Alastor, thank you,” he smiles, and he takes his final bite of breakfast. He stands with his plate.

“Wait,” he turns at your voice, “let me do that”. 

He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Since you’re leaving me to roam the house, the least I can do to thank you is clean up”.

“Thank you, my dear. Don’t make me regret this”.

He offers you a small goodbye and a smile as he leaves for his show, and you watch him through the window over the sink as you wash the dishes. As if he can sense you, he shoots you a look over his shoulder. A giggle bubbles from your throat.

This is good.

*

A week passes.

You think. 

Alastor doesn’t lock your door until night time, and you understand why.  
Today, he’s late. You took it on yourself to make some dinner, and you had been excited to see his reaction.  
You’re not sure how you feel.  
Are you worried about him? You add another log to the fire. It’s not enough to distract you. You pace the room.    
What if something happened to him?    
What would you do?  
Leaving here isn’t an option.  
He brings the groceries and the wood, how would you survive?  
Your heart hammers in your chest, loud enough that you almost miss the door clicking shut. You turn around to see a raggedy Alastor, no smile, only sweating and bleeding from a wound on his forehead. You don’t say a word and neither does he.  
Your body acts of its own accord.  
You grab a towel, bandages, everything you felt you needed. You dump the items on the table, and Alastor simply watches. When you have everything, you go to him, he still doesn’t smile. His glasses are cracked over one eye. 

“I’m sorry, I should have helped you sit first. Can you walk?”

Alastor tries to stand but he seems almost dizzy. You put his arm around your shoulder, and he watches you. You sit him at his place at the table.

“Okay, okay, okay,” you breathe the words, and you dip the towel into the water bowl. You stop the towel an inch from his face.

“This might sting, do you want to hold something or bite something or…?”

He doesn’t answer, his eyes are fixed on you with some unreadable expression. He lifts his hand weakly, and holds your waist. You take it as the “okay” to start, and you gently dab at the blood. He hisses and squeezes your shirt.    
It takes a while. Alastor doesn’t let you go.  
The worry eats at your stomach, and it doesn’t settle until the wound is cleaned and covered. But even as the bandage goes on, he doesn’t let you go. Your work is done. He doesn’t let you go.

“You did a wonderful job”, he rests his forehead against your stomach, “can you just stay right there for a few moments?”

“Of course.”

It lasts longer than a few moments. Alastor’s arms go around your waist, and you aren’t sure how best to respond. He’s warm like this but he seems so small. Your fingers find their way to his hair, and you stroke through it gently. 

More than another few moments pass. 

The sky is black and dashed with blotted streaks of cloud when he finally lets go of you. 

“I think it’s time for bed,” Alastor tries to stand, but you put your hands on his shoulders.

“No,” he looks at you in surprise, “dinner. You’ll heal better with food in your belly”.

You smile down at him, and he laughs though he winces. There’s that feeling again. You want so badly to kiss his forehead. Instead you step back and go to the cooker. It’ll take a few minutes to heat up, but you don’t move from it. You hide your burning cheeks there, your stomach twists in that way, the way you’d pushed back, now it’s new, exciting. It makes your heart flutter when you hear Alastor walk towards you, and it makes your breath hitch when he puts his arms around your waist. The heat of his chest against your back is comforting, you want to lean back, as if it were the most familiar thing in the world. Before you can, he speaks;

“You know what I am, don’t you?” his voice is soft. Not quite apologetic, but something close to it.

“I have my guesses,” you stir the pot gently, “but it doesn’t change that I don’t want to leave.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I hope it stays that way, darling”.

“That is the finest meal I’ve had in years,” Alastor says and you believe him. He has perked up but he still looks tired.

“It’s no problem. Good thing I picked today to cook.” 

He laughs, “good thing indeed. I think it’s bedtime”. You nod. 

“I’ll clean this in the morning, don’t worry,” you smile at him. His eyes are bright. You take a moment to admire him, but end your gaze a little early.

“Goodnight, Alastor”.

“Goodnight, my dear”.

You walk in silence to your room, and you change for bed. You wait for the telltale click of the door being locked. But it doesn’t come. Even after you hear Alastor’s door close.

You stir. You can’t get comfortable, not without the click.

After ten minutes, you go to the door, and quietly as you can, turn the handle. 

“Alastor?”

No response.    
You peek into his room,somewhere you’ve never been.

“Alastor?”

He peeks out from the covers, and responds in a groggy voice,

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I just...you didn’t lock my door.”

He chuckles.

“I didn’t think it necessary.”

“Oh...okay. Well...goodnight” 

“Goodnight…” his voice trails off.

He must be exhausted.  You’re back in your own bed in a few moments, and fatigue sets in once your head hits the pillow.  You hope Alastor will stay home tomorrow. 

*

A few nights later, things are normal. He is healed well and again enjoyed your cooking. 

But now, your dreams are filled with strange lights, siren wails, rain and blood mottled together on the walls of the cabin. Alastor is there but in the same breath, he isn’t. The walls distort. They stretch and squeeze in impossible directions. Alastor reappears. He doesn’t look like himself, but your dream knows it is him. It is the stand-in for him. But this Alastor is taller. He’s dressed in vivid red. He doesn’t see you; his eyes are closed. He casts a long shadow, one that isn’t right. Fluffy ears sit high on his head, antlers sit between them. When you look back to his form, it matches the shadow, but the colours of him have changed. His hair matches his suit, and his skin has turned to a grey. His eyes open, and where that Absinthe green once was there is now a dark red iris, and a lighter red sclera. His glasses are gone, replaced by a single red tinged monocle.   
Now he sees you, and his mouth twitches into a smile. One that keeps growing. Full of impossibly sharp teeth, wider, wider, until you’re certain his face will split open. Somewhere in the distance, his voice comes through a radio. 

“You know what I am, don’t you?” 

You nod.

“You said you didn’t want to leave. Will it stay that way now that the Devil is knocking on your door?”

You wake with a start, heart pounding in your ears like the Devil’s knocking.  
You’re interrupted by actual knocking, and you shriek. Has he come for you?!  
The door opens, and Alastor walks into the room.

“Are you alright?”

No “good morning”, and no smile. His face is painted with worry. 

“Sorry, nightmare. How’s your head?”

He regards you with a look of distrust. 

“What was your nightmare?” 

He walks closer, slowly. It’s terrifying. The look in his eyes is the same as the one the night he took you. The same as the one from your nightmare.

His bandage is gone. 

“The house was strange and you were some kind of demon, warning me about the Devil I think,” your voice is weak. Your body is frozen as he stalks closer. You feel like prey.

There’s a knife in his hand.

“Foolish of me to give my game away”.

The knife glints in the morning light.

“The Devil isn’t knocking anymore, my dear, the Devil is here and he’s going to swallow you whole”.

As the knife pierces your chest, you wake again with a gasp. The room is still dark, and you pinch yourself to be sure you’re not in another nightmare. The pain flickers through your arm, but at the same time, tears brim in your eyes. Without thinking, you get out of bed and leave your room. You stop for a split second of apprehension, but you’re pushed forward by the fear that bubbles in your gut. You step into Alastor’s room and he stirs immediately. He struggles for his glasses and looks at you, utterly baffled.

“What’s wrong?”

“I...uh….I…” your tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, heyheyhey, come here,” he swings his legs over the side of his bed and holds out his arms in invitation. You walk towards him, tears now flowing freely. You sink to your knees, your arms wrap around his waist, and his go around your neck. His hand splays on your shoulder and rubs it gently. You stay like this until your crying dissolves to pathetic gasps. Alastor moves you back until you’re at bent arms length. He cradles your face with one hand while the other stays on your shoulder.

“Talk to me, sweetheart, what happened?” 

His thumb sweeps your tears away, and you catch your breath. 

“I had a nightmare...you were this big...demonic thing and you told me the Devil is coming. Then I woke up, I thought I woke up, and you tried to…” your lip wobbles again and he pulls you in before you can talk again. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here,” you wrap your arms around his waist again. He smooths your hair. You don’t know how long you stay there, but a shiver runs through you to bring you back. 

“Come here,” He slides back into bed and beckons you again, “come on, you’ll freeze.”

You lie down beside him and he pulls the blanket over you both.

His arms wrap around you and you’re against him, immediately tangled and already, your panic subsides. A few moments pass, sleep sneaks back into you, and your eyes grow heavy. You stir, an attempt to leave, but his arms tense. 

“Where are you going?”

“I thought you’d want me to go back to bed…”

“If I wanted you to go back to your bed, I wouldn’t have asked you into mine, my dear,” you can hear his smile through the tiredness in his voice. You smile and close your eyes. The world melts away, and with his breathing as a lullaby, you settle into a comfortable sleep. Though in the breath before you do, you whisper “goodnight” and he hums back.

*

Morning warmth dances over your back, and your eyes open slowly. Alastor is still in front of you, still asleep. The light hits his face beautifully, and you realise that this is the first time you’ve seen him with messy hair. It’s cute. But his deep sleep inspires something else. You slide out of bed, and clean yourself up quickly. He hasn’t moved yet, and you set to work. 

A little while later, he rouses, and out of habit you imagine, you hear a knock.

“In here,” you call over your shoulder as you put breakfast on the table. He pauses when he sees breakfast and he smiles. 

“You’re making me obsolete, my dear”. 

“It’s the least I could do after last night”.

You’re pouring coffee into a mug when you feel his chest against your back again, and he gives you what feels like a short hug. You smile, but your smile freezes as his lips meet your cheek and he hums softly before he walks to the table and sits. A giddy bubble feels like it’s going to burst through your chest but you swallow it until you’ve placed his coffee next to him.

He sips and his brow raises in surprise; “You know how I take it?” 

You shrug, “Why wouldn’t I?”

You expect a smile but he just looks...surprised still. He’s quiet a few moments before he quietly says something you don’t quite hear. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?”

“I said, thank you, my dear, this is,” he pauses and a soft smile tugs at his lips, “this is perfect”. 

You smile back, and you enjoy breakfast in silence, with only the chirp of birds and your excited heart breaking it.

*

Weeks pass, and you’ve settled into new freedom with Alastor. You feel at home now, you have a routine with him and free roam of the house. That first morning cheek kiss had repeated a few times, not nearly often enough for your appetite. This morning though, he’s got a strange energy, something frantic in his footsteps when he walks towards the kitchen. You’re still plating breakfast when he walks in, and you turn your head to throw a “good morning” over your shoulder. 

Instead you’re met with his lips on yours in a quick peck. The look on his face says it was an accident, but the smile that breaks through says he doesn’t regret it.

“Luck must be with me today!” he gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and goes to his place at the table with that cheerful hum in his voice. You put his plate in front of him and put your own down adjacent, and you follow with two cups of coffee.

You want to eat, but the memory of the mere brush of his lips on yours tingles still and you don’t want to wipe it away.

“Eat, dear,” you pick up your fork but still delay, “is your stomach okay?”

“Yes, yes, sorry, uh, yeah,” you reluctantly eat and he smiles before he continues his own meal. 

That feeling in your belly had gotten stronger. It was no longer excitement for company, it was for  _ his _ company. You yearned for him beside you when you read on the couch, when you cooked, when you woke. Every moment, you wanted him there. 

Not that he knew that. 

You’d hid your interest well enough, you hope, but there’s a twinkle in his eye sometimes that suggests he knows. You don’t think he’d mind too much.

“I might be late tonight, my dear, business to attend to~” the singsong in his tone is endearing and you smile despite knowing what that business means. 

“Be careful,” he smiles at you.

“I am since I met you”.

You let his words hang in the air and sink into you. Breakfast is finished in silence, but your mind pulls you back to the day you patched him up, and it stirs worry in you. 

You are placing the dishes in the sink when he pulls on his coat, and you don’t know what comes over you. You cross the room as he’s about to wave goodbye and you hug him tight.

He flinches but he hugs you back just as tight.

“I’ll be back before you know it”.

*

You’re over the pot of jambalaya when the door opens.

You turn to greet him but the words catch in your throat.

He’s covered in blood. And from what you can see, it’s not his own. There’s a smile on his lips, one of...relief maybe? But something about it says pleasure, and the way his eyes meet yours with a relaxed but passionate gaze stirs you. You've never seen him like this, and it's so fierce and feral, you can't look away. He glances over you without a word, and beckons you forward with a blood soaked, leather gloved hand. You obey, still wordless, heart almost achingly fast. Before him, you feel smaller than you ever have. He asks permission with his eyes, and you nod in response, before he holds your face. It’s awkward, with one hand on your head so his thumb brushes your forehead, and the other on your cheek, his fingertips brush just below your eye and his thumb is under your chin. The blood on his gloves is still warm when it smears your face. The hand in your hair pulls you forward gently and his nose brushes yours. This close, you realise just how much blood is on his face; it coats his cheek and splatters sit across his nose and glasses and forehead. Your eyes flick down to see it on the collar of his shirt, and you swallow. You can see some smeared across his lips too.

You love him like this.

He leans in, pulls your face to the side with his grip on your cheek and breathes in deep against your neck. He makes a choked noise with a moan mingled into it, and pulls your face back so he can see your eyes again. 

“ _ No one _ smells like you”

He kisses you. His hand grips your hair and the other holds the back of your neck and it’s all very sloppy but you’ve never felt more  _ alive.  _ You can feel the blood streak across your lips and you groan against him. There’s a coppery taste when he slips his tongue between your lips and presses it to yours. You can’t keep your hands to yourself any longer and you grab at him with matched fervour. You tug anything you can reach; his shirt, his hair, his trousers. He’s just as erratic, but one hand always stays in your hair, a reminder of who is in control.

Not that you need that reminder.

Though maybe you do.

You push him against the door, you  _ try _ to, but he’s too strong, and he forces you towards the table, though your lips don’t leave his. You turn before you meet the table, and his grip leaves your hair and your body as he holds onto the table for support as his rear reaches it. Your kiss finally breaks, but only for you to steal a softer one as your thread your fingers under his suspenders and trace down along them as you drop to your knees. 

He watches you for a moment, and you can’t imagine how you must look. But when he cards a hand through your hair, it seems he likes what he sees.

From here, he should look terrifying. His lips and chin are streaked in blood but you’ve never wanted him more. You press your thighs together, eager instead to touch him, but you wait for his permission. He doesn’t make any motion, and you wonder if he knows what you want to do. You rest your cheek against his leg, too close to his crotch to be accidental, and he nods.  
With fumbling fingers, you undo his trousers, though you rise for just one more kiss as you his suspenders from his shoulders. His trousers drop a little, and you push them and his underwear just low enough for his length to spring free. He wraps an arm around your waist and turns you until you’re against the table, but when you try to touch him, he grabs your hands. With small soft kisses on the back of each, he pushes them both towards the table, and you obediently grab the edge of the table. He’s not as careful as he undresses your lower half, his face is even but his breathing is wild, like he can’t wait a second longer for you. Cool air hits your crotch and you shiver, but he’s against you in a second. He grips your waist and lifts you onto the table as if you weigh nothing. Another kiss and he pushes your shoulder until you lay back on the table. He looks between your legs and you follow his gaze. You’re covered in the blood that had been on his gloves and on him, and you see a little spark in his eyes before he drops to his knees. He presses his nose against you in a way that tickles but sends another jolt through you, and he breathes in deep, just as he had against your neck. 

“I didn’t think you could smell any more delicious but you do,” the tip of his tongue drags against you and you moan, “and you taste just as good…”

He stands, and with a quick kiss-in which you can taste the cocktail of blood and your wetness- he pushes the tip of himself into you. It doesn’t hurt, you’re too wet for that, and he doesn’t take his time. He pushes himself into you until tears prick the corners of your eyes and your breath catches at how full you feel. He gives you the barest moment before his hips move, and then he doesn’t hesitate. His thrusts are ruthless and with each one he grunts. His hands are planted on the table beside you and you squeeze his forearms to keep yourself from being too loud. Not from embarrassment, no, because every sound  _ he _ makes sends a thrill through you. Your back arches but he stops, and earns an annoyed whine from you. 

He wraps an arm around your waist and encourages you to sit up as he pulls you to the edge of the table, still silent. You try to kiss him but he grabs your jaw to stop you, and you realise he’s simply admiring you. You wrap an arm around his shoulders, a gut feeling says you should, and he leans in for a kiss. It’s tender, a strange clash from moments ago, but his free hand snakes down from your jaw to your neck and he holds it. You should be afraid, you know that.

But you’re not. 

You’re desperate, more than you were before. He presses kisses along your cheek as far as your ear and whispers;

“You’re mine,”

You nod, shivering at the words, but he squeezes your throat a little. 

“Say it”.

You stutter out the words but you know he can’t hear them, he squeezes your throat harder.

“Say it,  _ properly! _ ”

“I’m yours, Alastor!” 

His hips start again, but he pulls back until he’s nose to nose with you. He has one hand on the table, the other around your neck, and he stares at you through every thrust. You struggle to keep your eyes open, your breathing is ragged, and you whine shamelessly against his lips. You feel something tightening in your stomach, like an elastic stretching to its ends.  
But the way he leans against you pushes his pelvis against something that makes you jolt and moan properly. He smiles against your lips and the hand on your throat travels down, and his leather covered thumb rubs that same spot. You clench around him and moan again and he grunts at the feeling, but he doesn’t stop. You cling desperately to him as he keeps the pace of his thumb and his hips until that elastic is stretched to its limits. Your eyes squeeze shut and he steals a short kiss before you let out a jumbled sound you think is a long moan of his name. The elastic snaps and your head falls back and your fingernails dig into him and the table and you call his name breathlessly to the ceiling. His thumb stops but his hips don’t, now he holds your waist with a bruisingly tight grip and he bucks into you with reckless abandon. You manage to come nose to nose with him again, and your hand leaves the table to caress his cheek. Slowly, your back meets the table and Alastor’s grunts turn to whines and gasps until his hips still and you feel something warm inside you as he moans your name against your lips. 

You stay like that for a while, lost in each other, eyes locked until he presses his forehead to yours and lets out a shaky sigh.

He pulls himself from you and stands properly, though your legs feel too boneless to stand just yet. He helps you to your feet, his arms circle you again and you don’t hold back in hugging him. He kisses your hair and you breathe him in; the smell of dirt and blood and musk is too good to understand. But there’s another smell and you let go of him too fast and run to the stove. A little burned but salvageable. You turn to see a confused Alastor whose face changes upon noticing the pot, and he bubbles with laughter and pure joy. You laugh too and he hugs you again. Everything snaps into place. 

This is home. 

Dinner is savoured and you wash up beside Alastor afterwards. Your eyes meet at odd moments and you smile like foolish teenage lovers each time. Sleep calls you both, and you follow him when he takes your hand and leads you to his room. _Our room_ , you suppose.

You follow him into bed. 

You wake the following morning a tangle of limbs, but Alastor is already awake and watching you. 

“Good morning, darling”.

“Good morning, my love,” he smiles as he kisses you, almost before you can finish speaking. 

This is something better than home.

If the Devil had swallowed you whole, you must have ended up in paradise. Those green eyes look into yours once more before you get out of bed. 

*

A few weeks later, he’s late again, but something is off. 

It doesn’t feel right.   
You can’t wait any longer to look for him. Not after hearing those dogs an hour ago.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my work! For updates, giveaway info, and general thought process, join me!  
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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Action: roller’s choice Body Part: between legs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291095) by [DragonsInkwell (Lafrenze)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafrenze/pseuds/DragonsInkwell), [TheHuggamugCafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe)




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